Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts

by David Dalglish

  Of the other guilds, he saw not a cloak, not an armband. Nothing. Tarlak continued to turn, then stopped, frowned down at Brug.

  “Well,” he said, “shit.”

  “Truly, you are a wizard with a silver tongue.”

  “Try not to feel too jealous.”

  They continued east, leaving more of the hustle and crowd behind the farther they went. Tarlak took his hat off ten minutes later, glanced inside it, and then put it back on his head.

  “We’re still being followed,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “My hat said so.”

  Brug’s bewildered look gave Tarlak pause.

  “Your … hat?”

  “There’s a mirror inside it. Did you think my hat actually…” He let out a sigh. “Ashhur save me from the company of my friends.”

  They were approaching the wealthiest parts of Veldaren, and Tarlak knew the Connington mansion wouldn’t be far off. He glanced around to either side, looking for a suitable place.

  “There,” he said, nodding at a two-story house, its outside painted a faint gray, the roof sharply slanted with wooden tiles painted black.

  “Anything special about that one?” Brug asked.

  “No fence, no guards. Come on.”

  Tarlak left the road, following the short walkway across the poorly tended lawn to the home’s front door. A quick check and he found it locked, but that he could deal with. Putting his hands together, he whispered one of his simpler arcane spells. The tumblers inside the door clicked and shifted, and moments later, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Brug followed, then Tarlak flung it shut and redid the bolt.

  “What all did you see in your hat?” Brug asked as the two remained in the cramped entranceway.

  “A handsome red-bearded devil.”

  “I meant our shadow.”

  “Standard fare,” Tarlak said. “Lots of gray, lots of cloak. Imagine being stalked by Haern, only bigger.”

  “Fun thought.”

  They turned about, and Tarlak winced at the sight. The outside of the home looked like any other, but it hid an inside that was thoroughly vacant. The floors were bare, the walls stripped of paintings and mirrors, leaving bright squares to mark where they’d been. As they walked farther inside, they found more bare rooms, plus rows of cabinets that had been ransacked some time before.

  “Cheery place,” Brug said.

  “Owners must have fled Veldaren not long ago,” Tarlak said. “Let’s hope they won’t mind our using it for a moment.”

  Brug was without his armor, but he had his punch daggers with him at all times, and he readied them as he stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. Tarlak kept his attention bouncing between the front door, which he’d locked, and the many windows along the sides of the house.

  “Do you think whoever it is will make a move here and now, when we’re ready?” Brug asked.

  “Not sure,” Tarlak said. “They’d have to be absurdly—”

  The window past Brug on the far side of the house shattered, and Tarlak spun that way, a bolt of lightning already flying off the palm of his hand toward the noise. His friend dropped to his knees and ducked his head, smart enough to know such a reaction was appropriate whenever Tarlak cast his magic. The bolt blasted past Brug, through the doorway, and into the other room, the sound of it deafening in the enclosed space. The intruder was already rolling on the ground, the blast passing just above him.

  Out from the roll he came, swords drawn. Tarlak saw his attire, his weapons, thought nothing of it. What did sear into him, awakening horrible memories, was the man’s face, an oval of white paint thickly smeared across dark skin. Before Tarlak could react, Ghost lifted a sword and pointed it at him, an eyebrow raised in surprise.

  “Didn’t I kill you?” he asked.

  “Didn’t Haern kill you?”

  Ghost shrugged.

  “Fair enough.”

  Fire flung from Tarlak’s hands, three balls that exploded the moment they crossed through the doorway. Brug dove to one side, letting out an angry cry that Tarlak couldn’t quite decipher. Ghost avoided them as well, vanishing out of sight behind the doorway.

  “Get over here, Brug,” Tarlak said, slowly backing away toward the front door.

  “I’m not scared of that bastard,” Brug said, stumbling to his feet and then clanging his daggers together. “That’s him, isn’t it, the one who killed Senke?”

  Tarlak let out a deep breath at the mention of the name.

  “It is,” he said. “Now get over here before he kills someone else.”

  Brug took a step toward him, a second, and then Ghost lunged through the doorway, swords lashing out. The first hit only air, misjudging the distance, and for the second one, Brug crossed his daggers and blocked it just in time. His positioning was bad, and Ghost kicked him once in the stomach, then the face. The impact of it sent him sprawling backward, his body rolling to a stop at Tarlak’s feet. Before Ghost could finish him off, Tarlak extended his hands, screaming out the words of a spell. A wall of solid force shimmered into view for but a second, then flung outward, slamming into Ghost and sending him rolling away.

  “You couldn’t just stay dead?” Tarlak shouted as he dropped to one knee, checking to make sure Brug was all right. The man’s nose was bleeding, but he didn’t seem too badly hurt.

  “How do you know I’m not?” Ghost asked, still positioned out of sight behind the doorway in the other room.

  “I don’t think you’d be too scared of me if you were.”

  He sent another bolt of lightning through just because he could, then pulled on Brug’s arm.

  “Get off your ass,” he said as the man staggered back to his feet.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Brug said, wiping his face and smearing blood across his sleeve. “I swear, Tar, I’m going to kill him.”

  “More than welcome to,” Tarlak muttered, staring at the door and waiting. Ghost was patient, maddeningly so. If he’d only show himself so Tarlak could properly burn him to ashes like he deserved …

  Still nothing. Tarlak dared a glance at Brug, who was inching forward, daggers raised.

  “Ghost?” Brug asked after another moment.

  The door behind them shattered and Tarlak spun, hands whirling through the air on instinct. Ghost came crashing through at a full sprint, the mansion’s front door but a nuisance for him to slam aside. In a panic, Tarlak extended his left hand, and from its center appeared a single long, slender shard of ice, wickedly sharp at its point. It flew through the air, straight at the charging Ghost.

  The man crossed his arms and dove, slamming into the wall of the hallway while turning his body to the side. The shard flew harmlessly past, and then Ghost continued on, his pace hardly even slowed. As the giant man leaped through the air, Tarlak knew he was a dead wizard, but he kept casting anyway, twisting his fingers into the necessary shapes, human mimicries of the arcane runes necessary to put form to the powerful magic that dwelled within him.

  As Ghost’s swords came slicing in, Brug leaped into the way, letting out a battle-mad howl. His daggers smacked aside both thrusts, and then he ducked his head and went charging in, both arms punching. Within the cramped space, Ghost could only leap backward in an attempt to gain space as well as recover his positioning. The first two of Brug’s punches missed, the third and fourth he parried aside, opening up room for an attack.

  But despite all his screaming and wild attack, Brug had no desire to continue the assault, and the moment Ghost parried, Brug turned and dove to the ground toward Tarlak, and the wizard felt the briefest moment of appreciation for the man’s ability to improvise in a hectic situation.

  In that exact moment, Tarlak activated his spell. A red line spread across the floor of the hallway, and then it erupted, a burst of fire that crawled up the hallway and rolled across the ceiling, forming an impenetrable wall of flame between Brug and Ghost. Tarlak had hoped the man would be caught trying to pass through, b
ut Ghost did not. Instead, when the fire dissipated seconds later, leaving the walls charred black and smoke billowing across the ceiling, Ghost was nowhere to be found.

  “Damn it, too many exits and entrances,” Tarlak said.

  “Up the stairs, then,” Brug said, scrambling back to his feet. “If we’re going to fight, let’s make it harder for him to come to us.”

  Sounded like as good a plan as any to Tarlak. He followed Brug up the circular staircase, climbing into a second story that appeared even more dilapidated than the lower. There were only two rooms, each barren with large glass windows. Tarlak smelled the distinct smells of alcohol and urine, and he wondered if others had been making use of the building since its owner’s departure. Tarlak remained at the top of the stairs, while Brug turned back and forth, keeping an eye on the windows of both rooms.

  “What’d we ever do to that bastard to make him come back for us?” Brug asked, still keeping his head swiveling.

  “He beat us bloody, tied us up, killed Senke, and nearly killed me as well,” said Tarlak. “If anyone should be hunting, it’s us…”

  “You’re right, of course,” said Ghost, leaning around the edge to appear at the foot of the staircase. Tarlak flung a small ball of fire his way, but the man easily sidestepped out of sight, the fire harmlessly splashing across the dirty floor and vanishing without catching.

  “About what?” Tarlak asked, another ball of fire hovering above his palm. “Us needing to hunt you?”

  “Indeed, but you misunderstand my being here.”

  “Are you here to kill us?”

  “I am.”

  Tarlak laughed.

  “Then I think we understand you just fine.”

  Ghost dashed in front of the staircase entrance, going from the left side to the right. Tarlak felt baited, and he kept his spell at ready. When Ghost vanished from sight, he shouted back up the staircase.

  “I do not come for you out of malice,” Ghost insisted. “And I bear you no grudge for what you’ve done.”

  “Bear us a grudge?” Brug asked, standing beside Tarlak looking bewildered. “You killed Senke, you stinking son of a bitch. Haern said you were dead, and that’s exactly what you should be.”

  “Keep your eyes open,” Tarlak whispered, grabbing his friend by the arm. “He won’t charge the stairs, so he’ll have to come through a window.”

  Brug’s face was red with fury, but he nodded and continued to scan both the rooms. Tarlak cracked his neck, then continued focusing on keeping the fire burning on his hands. Just in case Ghost tried to make a desperate climb … or finally came crashing through one of the many upper-floor windows.

  “Your friend never killed me,” Ghost shouted after a moment. His voice sounded distant, and Tarlak guessed him slowly shifting toward one of the windows to the outside. “I wish he had. Then I’d have been spared the past four years. I’d have been spared their touch, their needles…”

  The voice trailed off to nothing. Climbing on the outside, surely, but where? Which side? Still above the staircase, Tarlak glanced left, right, turned his attention back to the stairs. Behind him, he heard Brug shifting on his feet, trying to remain loose. The waiting was driving Tarlak mad, and he hated how Ghost was controlling the entirety of the fight. If only he could find him out in the open!

  To his left, he heard the shattering of glass. He spun that way, and Brug rushed toward it without the slightest hesitance. The window was beyond where Tarlak could see from his position, and as the glass fell upon the upper floor, he felt a warning in his gut he dared not ignore. Despite the danger, despite how horrible a position Brug would be in if left to fight Ghost on his own, Tarlak turned and slammed his hands together. Seeing nothing, hearing nothing, he still cast his spell, pointing his hands down the stairs and unleashing a massive barrage of fire, as if his palms were the mouth of a furious dragon.

  Just as the fire began to roll, Ghost appeared from around the left corner, legs pumping, swords drawn, his large body traveling at a bewildering speed so great that he was halfway up the stairs before he could even register the fire bathing him. Tarlak heard him scream, and it sent chills racing up his spine. Ghost dropped to his stomach, hands crossing to protect his face. The moment he hit the stairs, he rolled, and Tarlak doubted if he cared about the blows he took as he rolled down. Anything would be better than the fire.

  “You killed my best friend,” Tarlak said, looping his hands around once, ice shards growing in the air before him. “Whatever torture you suffered, you deserved a hundred times worse.”

  He flung the shards, aiming to spear Ghost through the chest. The man was tougher than Tarlak guessed, though, and even as he lay at the bottom of the stairs, his arms and face horribly burned, he was still not beaten. Even as Ghost screamed, he rolled along the floor and out of the way. Out of sight, Tarlak swore and rushed down the steps, wishing he were half as fast as the giant man. At the bottom of the steps, he saw what he knew he’d find: no one.

  “You get him?” Brug asked, rushing down the stairs after him.

  “He’s badly burned, but he might live,” Tarlak said, looking left to right as he briefly thought of chasing. But he couldn’t even guess whether the man had fled out the window or the front door. Haern was the tracker in their group, not him.

  Furious, he punched a wall, then again, tempted to tear the whole building down with his magic in an attempt to accommodate the overwhelming anger he felt.

  “I don’t get it,” Brug said, sheathing his daggers and then gingerly touching his bruised nose with his fingers. “He was dead, wasn’t he? Where was he all this time if not?”

  “I don’t know,” Tarlak said. “And honestly, I don’t care. All I care about is that the next time I see him, he dies, and this time, I’ll burn his damn body to make sure if he does come back it’ll have to be as an actual ghost.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Brug said.

  Tarlak chuckled.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back to the tower and out of this awful city.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  There was nothing special about the town of Trass, at least to Haern’s eyes. They were traveling south, following the Rigon River’s western bank, and had passed through many such towns. All around were well-tilled fields, and many towns had shops set up to sell plows and repair nets, and barter away the day’s latest catch or harvest. But apparently, Trass had what they wanted, for when Thren led them down the street toward the ramshackle inn, he beamed.

  “Truth be told, I didn’t think it would take this long,” Thren said to them as he headed toward the inn’s door.

  “I’d be inclined to believe you if I knew what we were looking for in the first place,” said Haern. He felt uncomfortable as he always did when walking the open street in daylight. His attire, with his long cloak and his low hood obscuring his face, would earn him strange looks in Veldaren. Out in a land of farmers and fishers? He and Thren were oddities, and ones people knew to rightly fear. Men and women veered away from them when they passed. If not for Delysia accompanying them, dressed in her priestess robes and with the symbol of the Golden Mountain clearly showing on her chest, they might have openly demanded their departure.

  “Information,” Thren said as he opened the door to the inn and stepped inside.

  The inn was small, and down the corridor past the innkeeper, Haern saw what he guessed were only two rooms. An older man with sores on his face sat on a wooden chair beside the corridor, arms crossed over his chest as he slept. Thren walked up to him and kicked the chair.

  “Wake up,” he said.

  The innkeeper startled, and seeing Thren, he glared.

  “Five copper a head,” he said. “Though I should make it six for waking an old man so rudely.”

  Thren chuckled.

  “The sun marks the sky,” he said. “And I wish to talk to someone unafraid of its light.”

  The innkeeper narrowed his eyes.

  �
�So, you’re one of them?” he asked. Thren nodded. “All right, then. Go to the commons and ask for Maneth. If you’re looking to talk, he’s the one best at it.”

  Thren dipped his head in thanks, then turned and strode past Haern and Delysia and out the door.

  “I take it we’re meeting an informant?” Haern asked, hurrying after.

  “Something like that,” Thren said, looking left and right in search of the commons. “The Sun Guild’s been steadily moving east over the years, and even the smaller towns have someone to collect modest dues in return for guarantees no one else will try to muscle in on their trade. Such protection is easily worth it, for it also deters any bandits from trying to rob the place. No one of intelligence willingly makes an enemy of the Sun.”

  “Except us,” Delysia said.

  Thren cast her a smile.

  “Yes, except us,” he said. “Now let’s go find this Maneth.”

  It took only a few minutes of wandering for them to stumble upon the commons, a large expanse with only a single ancient oak growing in its center. In its shade were several groups of people talking, women holding babes as their children played, along with many tanned men drinking, most of them naked from the waist up. As Haern approached, he felt all eyes turning their way.

  “Well met this fine day,” Thren said to a group of three men drinking. “I’m looking for a man named Maneth. Might one of you be him?”

  “I’m Maneth,” said a man leaning against the oak. He was also bare chested, his shirt wrapped around his waist. Unlike the others, his tan was lighter, his arms less toned. “Care to tell me why three strangers odd as yourselves have come traipsing through our town?”

  “I have four reasons,” Thren said. “Each one a point, and each one made of gold.”

  Maneth grunted.

  “Get out of here,” he told the others.

  “But we were…”

  “Out!”

  The men muttered but wandered away, and the women quickly beckoned their children to their sides before they could carry them off. Haern watched them leave, and there was no denying the fear in their eyes. It wasn’t much, just a hint. Maneth didn’t command power himself, but they feared what he represented.